


Relentless

by rasyya



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, hawksilver - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasyya/pseuds/rasyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then the kid just starts invading all of Barton’s carefully carved out alone-shaped spaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relentless

**Author's Note:**

> I Think About Hawksilver Once Every Hour Upon the Hour: An Autobiography

Clint opens the door, and the cup of coffee he'd been nursing splatters on him and bits of porcelain ricochet off his bare feet as it crashes to the floor. His heart beats rabbit-fast and he's holding the doorframe for support. He realizes he's chanting vehemently, head fuzzy, "It's not real, you're not real. Fuck," quieter, "Fuck... it's happening again."

Pietro is grinning widely, hands open invitingly, fabric spread across his chest enticingly,

"Bet you didn’t see this coming, eh, old man?”

Clint reels and takes a step back; the thing in front of him eats up the widened space with a blink.

“I know you not like me very much, but my sister said," Clint feels frantic, needs to find higher ground, needs to get a grip,

"Is this her?” He interrupts, his voice high and harsh, “No, she would never, not after, fuck-- it's him. Oh god it's  _him_ ." Strangling darkness pours into him.

Pietro moves closer, he looks nervous, anxious, his hands clenching at his side. "What? Hawkeye, what's wrong? Barton, are you? Shit. I didn't. I'm sorry." His words come fast, faster, Clint hears buzzing. He moves back eyes wild, fingers itching, aching for his bow. "Get the fuck away from me I will--"

His vision tunnels and the next thing he knows he's on the stained linoleum floor of his kitchen, breathing hard, that--it's not the kid, that thing, hot and vibrating at his back, holding him down. It can’t be.

"It's me, Clint. I promise you. I just want to apologize. I'm sorry. I did not mean to--"

Clint can't breathe, and the panic makes his training kicks in, but the kid out maneuvers him; too fucking fast, too real, too alive.

"Clint."

The air crackles with a smell like lightening, and Clint is on the sofa, a dripping cup of water against his lips, and a gentle hand heavy across the back of his neck.

"Look at me," Pietro smiles big and cheesy.

"It’s me. Now breathe Barton, like so." His breathes are exaggeratedly slow; the slowest thing Clint has ever seen him do, and it helps. The calm seeps in slow and syrupy. But the panic still edges, still skirts his vision; he has to check. He has to be sure.

"Pietro can you, I need to see."

Maximoff's forehead creases in confusion.

"The bathroom I need to see."

His last word is full of worry and violence.

They are there in a blink. His eyes are. Oh god, thank fuck, his eyes are. They're his. Pietro is.

Real. Alive. 

 _Shit._  

Clint casually opens the mirror above the sink, never looking away from his own reflection. Pietro doesn't flinch when Clint pins him, a knife at his throat. Thrumming with life.

"Wanda told me about Loki."

Clint ignores him. "What are you doing here?" He asks. His throat tight like a vice.

"I tell over coffee." Pietro's voice is burning like whisky, smooth and teasing like a bullet, eager and promising.

Clint relaxes then, allows the relief and frustration colour his words, "In your dreams, kid.”

Pietro's smile is blinding.

**.**

“Take the Maximoff kid with you,” Fury throws out—blasé, carefully-casual; as if this hasn’t been planned from the get.

“Wanda?” Clint asks naïvely, hopeful that Nick will cut him a break for once in his life.

Fury gives him the sardonic-eyebrow-pursed lips combo—the one that silently broadcasts, ‘do I  _look_ like a fool to you?’

Clint sighs noisily,

Pietro then. _Goddamnit._

“Hnnngghhhh,” Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed, jaw clenched.

**.**

“You don’t like me.” Pietro’s accent is thicker the more upset he is, and he whips through a sniper furious, wrenching his trigger hand—clean break. On to the next one—thud of an elbow impacting ribs, crunch of a nose, a gurgled blood-filled sound.

_Show off._ Clint thinks.

“Yeah, not so much,” Clint puts an arrow through a shoulder, another through a knee cap, when all he wants to do is climb a fucking tree and just be.

“You’re a filthy liar, little bird.” It’s nothing but breathed words ghosting across his ear, hot and vibrating. Cool silver air kissing across his skin.

“It’s Hawkeye, you dick,” Clint’s arrows are sharp and smooth, fast and brash, swift and silent.

_Like Pietro._ His subconscious replies. He puts a mental arrow through it.

**.**

And then the kid just starts invading all of Barton’s carefully carved out alone-shaped spaces.

“Wanda say you have mind like dying star.” Pietro says balancing two large pizza boxes, and trying to scratch Lucky behind the ear.

Clint internally flinches, “Tell your sister to stop rooting around in my head.’

“She not do it on purpose,” Maximoff says with a defensive whine.

“I know,” Clint says soft, letting him in, if only to stop the dog from drooling all over the welcome mat, “It’s just,” he searches for an appropriate word, “it makes me uncomfortable.”

“And me?” Pietro shoves a greasy slice in his mouth,

_Jesus, even the way the kid eats is fast._

Clint realizes he’s maybe staring a little, “And you, what?”

“Do I make you uncomfortable,” It’s said so earnestly, Pietro holding his third piece of pizza gently between huge, sure hands.

“Nah, man. You’re just annoying as fuck, that’s all.”

Pietro guffaws, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, holding a cheesy slice out for Lucky, and Clint ignores the way his heart kinda stops and then starts back up, full throttle.

**.**

Clint’s supposed to be training.

He’s up in his nest, these weird bots Stark had dreamed up, darting all over the training room sending barbs his way—Tony had told Clint fifty times, _fifty times,_ that they were based off of the training droids from StarWars, but they’re dumb as shit, and easy to beat.

He absently shoots five, sending sparks flying, never taking his eyes away from the sweat-glistened muscles of Pietro’s bare back. Pietro’s torso twists, musculature bunching and sinewy-stretching; his pale hair plastered across his forehead, teeth clenched in concentration, running through whatever fucking simulation Tony has programed for him with such brilliant, beautiful, speed.

Clint takes in the glorious gathering strength of Maximoff’s thighs—the obscene way his track pants stretch across his ass.

He lets arrows fly, and watches until he’s down to half a quiver and the last bot drunkenly boinks repeatedly against the glass window.

Pietro is mopping his face with a towel, letting it rest across his sky-broad shoulders, scratching at his stubble lazily.

“Like what you see, old man?” he throws up cockily; eyebrow arched, smirk suggestive.

Clint takes his time choosing an arrow, fitting it to his bow, relishing the creaking-taut pull, making Pietro wait.

The kid is not good at it; twitches, pulls at the damp towel, fiddles with his hair, Clint waits him out.

“So what if I do?” the drone clunks to the floor, arrow sticking out of its metal flesh.

**.**

The kid is relentless.

“You want to watch film?” Pietro says that night, “five dollar bin at Walmart,” he holds up a plastic grocery bag.

“Um,” Clint says around a mouthful of noodles.

“Oh, you have food!” Pietro shoves his way in and grabs one of the opened boxes in the split second it takes for Barton to open his mouth to say, “aw, hell no.”

Clint pretends to be grouchy while Pietro shoves Die Hard into the DVD player and sits too close to him on the couch.

Huge shoulders brushing against his.

He barely watches the film, watches the kid watching the film; savoring the alive rush of him, the distracted jittery way his knee bounces, and Clint’s not even aware that he’s done it until he can feel the warm, firm thickness of the kid’s jean-clad thigh underneath his steadying palm.

Pietro freezes, eyes catching his, mouth opening a little.

“Sit still,” Clint tests, squeezing slightly. Pietro gives him a small nod, gaze back to the film, eyes a little glazed, jaw clenched.

And stays still.

Blood rushes around thickly and pounds in Clint’s temples and wrists.

He rewards Pietro by smoothing his thumb along the inside of his leg, above his knee, solid-teasing circles.

Pietro is watching him now, fists clenched at his side, body practically strumming in place.

“Please,” he lets out with a gasp when Clint let’s his hand travel to the space between the kid’s spread thighs; along the inseam of his jeans, cupping the bulge he finds there,

 

“Jeez, kiddo.”

 

“Please, Clint, let me move,”

“As long as you keep it slow,” and the words are barely out of his mouth before the body underneath his grasp is rolling eloquently, hips sinuously hitching up into his palm.

"Need to come?” He asks, feeling good in his bones.

“ _Please,”_ Clint hears it like a kick to the gut.

Pietro’s legs are splayed stupidly open and his mouth is slack and Clint can see his hard-on, the stiff shape of it caught crookedly in his jeans underneath his fingers.

"Need some help, huh?" Clint asks him, sounding hoarse but understanding, and palms Pietro’s thigh deliberately, greedily drinking up the quiver he gets in response.

“Alright, kid, I got you, lemme help,” Clint eases as Pietro whines, twisting needy as Clint’s fingers nimbly work open the button and zipper.

Maximoff’s breaths are coming short and harsh, and he’s shivering; these small hitched whines punching out of him as Clint finally gets the kid’s fucking cock out.

_Fuck._ It’s hard and leaking, Clint leans down and inhales musky, bitter-sharp dick.

Clint wraps a hand around it, feels it twitch as he strokes languidly,

“ _God, Clint,”_ Pietro whispers, and Clint braces a hand against the younger man’s ribcage, flexing fingertips in the warmth and bends to bite at the sensitive skin underneath hip bone.

Pietro is leaking all over Clint’s hand, dripping everywhere, all over his own belly, and Clint's fingers and everything; Clint draws his fist up, getting everything slick and slippery, stroking him slow and wet.

Pietro thrusts shallowly, tentatively, he feels strained and wound tight,

“Yeah,” Clint grunts, “Get it, just like that, kid” and Pietro moans breathy and fast and desperate, dribbling precome.

It feels like so much,  _too_ much,

Pietro gasps as Clint twists his fist, jacking him deep and capable; and the younger man’s cheeks are glowing, burning, and his eyes are lust-black and wrecked.

“Fucking get it, kiddo” Clint demands like a prayer, gutted and ragged, just patiently tugging it out of him, fingers solid and unforgiving around the heft of Pietro’s cock .

“Come on, come for your old man,” he demands, low and nasty, jerking him off,

and  _Shit._

Making him come, _Jesus, God,_ he’s coming and Clint can feel it pulsing out of him, creamy fucking load, wads of it blurting messy and filthy all over his hand.

_"Clint,"_ it comes out ruined -- like the kid is going to cry – a pained noise in his throat.

"That good?" Clint asks him, low and wary, his grip gentling as he strokes; pulling him through another round of aching and dripping.

“Perfect,” Pietro says, reaching towards the dull throbbing of Clint’s heavy, trapped cock; accent thick and wrapping around Clint like safety, like home.

**Author's Note:**

> meet me in the drift: http://rasyya.tumblr.com/


End file.
